


i saw the light

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cabin Fic, Future Fic, Gen, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mountains, Mute Dean Winchester, Reunions, Scars, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: “Sam, you gotta hear about this ghost story I found the other day,” Susanne says over the speakerphone, just as loud as she has been for the last half hour.For the most part, Castiel ignores her—or tries—and concentrates on the beads dangling from between his fingers, centerpiece pressed to his forehead. Praying doesn’t work, but some mornings, when the coffee doesn’t get him going and the walls feel more like a prison than a home, he sits at the library table and whispers empty words into the crucifix, like Jesus can ease the festering ache in his chest.He can’t—no one else can either.





	i saw the light

“Sam, you gotta hear about this ghost story I found the other day,” Susanne says over the speakerphone, just as loud as she has been for the last half hour.

For the most part, Castiel ignores her—or tries—and concentrates on the beads dangling from between his fingers, centerpiece pressed to his forehead. Praying doesn’t work, but some mornings, when the coffee doesn’t get him going and the walls feel more like a prison than a home, he sits at the library table and whispers empty words into the crucifix, like Jesus can ease the festering ache in his chest.

He can’t—no one else can either.

A few feet away, Sam’s chair creaks; he leans forward and rests an elbow on the table, propping up his cheek with his hand. His coffee steams, still fresh but untouched as he reads, halfheartedly listening to the cellphone placed between himself and Castiel. Castiel doesn’t talk—he doesn’t talk much anymore.

No one lives here anymore, aside from the two of them. The other hunters left two years ago, Mary lives partly in Sioux Falls and spends the rest of her time traveling from state to state, and Sam makes money tutoring online in his spare time—which is all the time, if either of them were to admit to it. They haven’t touched a weapon in months—the last time Castiel held a blunt instrument was when he chopped down the tree threatening to fall into the side of the bunker.

It’s quiet—and Castiel hates it, and continues his fruitless prayers.

“Is it as good as the last one you told me about?” Sam says, flipping the newspaper to the next page. If Castiel is bad off, Sam is even worse, the light from his eyes dimmed to a dull flicker. “I looked into it, and all I got out of it was a dog fight and a traffic ticket.”

“It’s better,” Susanna drawls. “So, I heard from Tommy who heard from Terrence, that there’s this cabin up in Tennessee called Mount LeConte—”

And Castiel stops listening, sighing into the crucifix. _Not a good morning_, he thinks, setting the rosary down. The beads, once cool, now sit atop the table, warmed from his hands and beginning to wear with repeated use. He takes his mug of tea and sips it in the lull, hoping the caffeine will do something for his senses, like wake him up, or keep him sane. Susanne’s voice is grating on the best of days, and why she continues to talk to Sam when Sam barely wants to entertain himself these days, Castiel doesn’t know. Castiel has a suspicion that he wants to keep ties with the outside world, no matter who calls.

She’s a good storyteller, Castiel will give her that, even if he can’t understand her accent majority of the time. She lives on Bourbon Street; Castiel visited her last year, just to get away for a few days, to clear his head. She knew Benny once, or so she said. “Anyway, there’s this guy that lives up there,” she continues, over the crowd noise and what sounds like a parade in the background. “Supposedly, he’s been there for a couple years, and he sells these really extravagant carvings Gatlinburg on the weekends. Big things, like eagles, totem poles, even a bear. I’m talking ten footers, they’re _massive_.

“It’s kinda creepy though, ‘cause he never talks, and he’s got these eyes, Samuel. Like he’s seen some shit.” She stops to cheer when the parade gets closer, her voice drowning amidst the noise. Slowly, Castiel glances over to Sam, then down to the phone. “And hikers have been talkin’ for awhile, about how in the middle of the night, you can hear someone singing Hank.” She laughs. “Anyway. Probably nothing to check out, but I know you’ve been looking for your brother. Doesn’t hurt to try, right?”

“Right,” Sam says, uneasy. Castiel picks up the rosary, placing it to his forehead. _Prayers don’t work, prayers don't work_. “Where did you say this place was?”

“Well, Tommy said it’s up one of the trailheads.” A door opens, slams shut. “Trillium Gap, you can reach it on one of the access roads outside of Gatlinburg. It's a couple mile hike, though. Though, I suppose y’all are probably used to that.”

“Unfortunately,” Castiel says.

At the sound of his voice, Susanne perks up. “Cassie, you didn’t tell me you were there. We been missin’ you down here real bad, honey.”

Castiel swallows, holds the rosary tighter. “I know.” How anyone misses him, he doesn’t know—the most he did when he was there was sleep, or watch tourists mull around the city from Susanne’s balcony. “I’ll try to make it down soon.”

“Door’s always open,” she says, “to both of you. You know where to find me.”

The call ends all too abruptly, bathing the library in silence. The foundation settles; a pipe rattles. Sam sits back in his chair, blowing out a disbelieving breath. “Last month, she sent us to Manitoba,” he says. “And the month before that, Maine. It’s like she hears these things and just—”

“Assumes,” Castiel finishes with a sigh.

The truth is, assumptions are all they have nowadays. No one has seen Dean for four years, his disappearance leaving a gaping hole in the fabric of the universe, like he never existed in the first place. One minute, Sam is wishing him goodnight in the library, and the next, Castiel wakes up to find Dean’s bedroom empty with no note left behind. Tracking him down always ended in failure. For all they know, he could be dead, or living another life without them, or just…

Gone.

Sam rubs the bridge of his nose, his exhale ragged, on the verge of tears Castiel knows have been there since that day. “We could always give it a shot,” he says, palming his eyes. “I mean, Gatlinburg’s a tourist town. At most, we could make a vacation of it. Just… a few days to get out of here.”

Slowly, Castiel nods. He thumbs over the sterling Jesus nailed to the crucifix, the silver warm in his grip. “You should sleep,” he decides. Pulling over Sam’s laptop, he opens the front cover, squinting against the sudden burst of light. “I’ll see if I can find anything. You shouldn’t be up this late.”

“Right,” Sam says through a yawn. He stands on wobbly legs and stretches his arms above his head, brow pinched with the strain. “You sure you’re alright?”

In reality, Castiel should follow his lead and doze off somewhere, but the last few days have been… taxing, at best. Something about the world feels off its axis, like a solar flare tampering with his Grace. He can’t sleep. Never could in the first place, but now, he can’t sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time, the unease taking root in his chest and blossoming. “I’m fine,” Castiel answers, and only belatedly remembers the rosary in his hand. Sam asked about it a few times—Castiel won’t tell him that it was a gift. The last thing Dean ever gave him. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam nods, eyes downcast. He pats Castiel’s shoulder in passing, his weight of little comfort anymore. Years ago, they would talk about what Dean’s absence meant, and how they were supposed to move on with the ghost of him lingering in every room. Now, they barely mention it—unless Susanne calls, or a story makes its way into Sam’s inbox. Castiel, most of all, tries to forget, and prays for forgiveness.

A door shuts down the hall. The lamp casts yellowed light throughout the room, the only source of illumination. If he wanted, Castiel could lift a finger and switch on every bulb, but the scant light comforts him, oddly enough. Reminds him of early mornings when Dean would wander in, would wish him good morning before heading straight to the kitchen. If he tries hard enough, Castiel can still hear his voice, can feel his warmth.

The login screen watches him, waiting. Castiel plugs in Sam’s password, and begins.

-+-

Some days, Castiel wishes he could still fly.

He probably could, if he tried hard enough. His wings are still intact, and he grooms them regularly, sometimes with Sam in the room, more often than not alone. The matter of flight, though, is something he hasn't really tested, not since he lost his Grace the first time, almost a decade ago now. His wings never grew back right, or so he suspects. Flight feathers in place, but no Grace to keep him aloft.

Earthbound, he sits in the passenger seat of his truck, and watches the world pass by. Barren deserts turn to forest-lined highways, the sun rising in the front window and setting in the rearview. Occasionally, they stop at rest areas and stretch their legs, or eat in fast food parking lots, parked underneath trees for shade. Autumn is relentless, summer’s grip still bearing down and bathing the east coast in a perpetual haze. Time moves sluggishly, like the world itself can’t cope with the temperature.

Even with the air conditioner, Castiel sweats.

He and Sam trade off around Clarksville, Kentucky, when Sam’s eyelids start to droop and Castiel can’t stand to sit still any longer. No one touches the tape deck. Dean swore he would fix it, and Castiel hasn’t bothered to try. Fixing it would mean one less promise Dean would have to keep; taking that away from him feels like him disappearing all over again. Castiel drives until the street lamps flicker on along the highway, headlights becoming more infrequent as he pulls off onto lesser traveled roads.

“We should’ve given up years ago,” Castiel murmurs above the sound of the road. In the passenger seat, Sam nods, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Sometimes, I wish we could.”

“I don't think we have it in our DNA, Cas,” Sam says, watery in his throat. “It’s just never made sense. I mean, Dean’s never been a flight risk. He’s constant, he’s—He’d hunt me down if I didn’t at least try to find him in the past, but that was his deal. He just couldn’t let go, and he always expected us to just let him die?” He shakes his head, wiping his eyes. “I don’t get how he can think so little of himself.”

Sometimes, Castiel wishes he could cry so openly. “There’s more going on in his mind that we probably could never fathom,” he says, settling back in his seat in an attempt to stretch his back. “He’s never believed in himself, but I thought he was trying.” He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “I really did.”

“What do you think pushed him over the edge?” Sam asks. In the light of passing cars, Castiel meets his eyes. “We didn’t do anything, did we? Or was it—”

“Michael,” Castiel finishes.

Plain as day—the only answer, and the one answer he never wants to admit to. The last Castiel saw of Dean, he was doing… better, considering. Just headaches, he always said; keeping Michael bound was a feat none of them had ever anticipated, and most days, Dean could barely function at all, his existence boiling down to coffee to keep him awake and alcohol to numb the pain. Most nights, Castiel watched over him if he dozed off, kept his hand over Dean’s eyes to keep him calm if he did wake.

It feels like decades, now. Wherever he is, Castiel hopes he’s well—hopes Michael is gone, most of all.

Sam stifles an audible sob, a hand over his mouth. They can’t keep doing this. Driving will kill them before old age does, and Dean won’t be there to attend their funeral. “We had him, Cas,” he croaks, afterward clearing his throat. “We had him under control, we were so close—”

“It’s not on us,” Castiel cuts him off. “None of this was out fault. What happened to Dean was something we could’ve never expected, but he did it to save us. All of us, and he was taken advantage of for it.” He stops, swallows. His chest hurts. “None of us are strangers to trying to do the right thing, your brother included.”

Silently, Sam nods. “Just wish we’d stop getting bit in the ass for it.”

“I think,” Castiel starts, choosing his words. “I think, if nothing comes of this, we should stop.”

Sam shoots him a look—not of anger, but of confusion, then acceptance. _We can’t keep chasing a ghost_. “Yeah,” he sighs, slumping in his seat. “Should’ve stopped after the last two, but I… I don’t wanna let him go. I don’t think I can.”

_Neither can I_, Castiel thinks. He smooths a hand down the steering wheel, exhaling the despair sitting in his lungs. “I know,” he settles for. “I don’t either.”

-+-

Gatlinburg is asleep when they arrive, the shops and stalls empty for the night, or closing down, a remaining few stragglers walking the streets, either back to their cars or hotels. Castiel parks outside of Carrs’ Motel and waits for Sam to check them in, forehead pressed to the steering wheel while he breathes. _Quiet_, he thinks—something about this town is too quiet, especially for this time of year. Windows rolled down, he can’t even hear the stream on the other side of the motel, nor can he hear cars rolling past, the noise replaced with unease, with fear.

A fleeting warmth tickles the edges of his Grace, so familiar yet so foreign. Something he hasn’t felt in years. Something—

“Hey,” Sam says through the open passenger window. Castiel startles and looks over, spotting the lone key in Sam’s hand. His heart stutters—Sam’s frown deepens. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“He’s here,” Castiel blurts, and Sam’s eyes widen. “Not close, but he’s…” He laughs, sitting back in his seat. “Alive. Dean’s alive.”

Four years. Four years of chasing dead leads, of scouring the country hoping to find an inkling of a trace, and Castiel finds him here. Or, senses him at least. For all he knows, Dean could still be hundreds of miles away, or at the same hotel. Relief washes over Castiel, just from knowing that his body isn’t lost in the woods somewhere, never to be recovered.

Sam must feel the same. His expression softens terrifyingly quickly, and his shoulders slump, the entirety of his weight braced against the truck’s window. He heaves out a sigh, shaky but elated. “There’s that, at least,” he says, hanging his head. His hair obscures the look in his eyes; for once, Castiel doesn’t want to see. “Think I’m dizzy now.”

“It could be the altitude,” Castiel says, a deliberate lie that Sam will latch onto. Gatlinburg isn’t remotely close to the highest peak of the Appalachia’s—still, it’s a better excuse than any. “We’ll go to the shop in the morning. We should rest, Sam.”

Slowly, methodically, Sam nods and lowers his seat, reaching for their duffels in the back. “Yeah. C’mon, we’re in a room by the river.”

-+-

The low thrum of Dean’s soul keeps Castiel awake most of the night, steadily creeping through the air, rustling like the wind through the pines. Lying in bed, Castiel listens and stares at the ceiling, waiting for an inevitable change, a shift in the current. Nothing comes. Just the steady rise and fall of breath, the pulse of Dean’s soul a constant in the night.

Desperately, Castiel wants to fly to him, just to see him again, to confirm that he’s not as much of a ghost as he’s thought for the last four years.

Castiel crosses his arms over his stomach and listens to the creek outside, water babbling over rocks. The minute they crossed into the Tennessee mountains, the temperature dropped significantly, or at least enough for him to leave the screen door open, cooler air drifting in. Sam shifts in the opposite bed, rolling over and tugging the blankets tighter. A breeze whispers through the branches, dying leaves falling onto the concrete patio.

He can’t sit still.

Slipping his shoes off and placing them on the foot of the bed, Castiel pads across the carpet and gingerly opens the screen door, leaving it ajar; no one would try to break in anyway, and majority of the fauna are asleep for the night, or so he hopes. Clouds disperse overhead, the moon shining through the trees. Next door, a man smokes, two beer bottles sitting beside his plastic chair.

“Listen,” Castiel hears him say, voice rough from a lifetime of nicotine. He glances over to the man, at his sunken eyes and saddened smile, and the finger pointing up into the forest. “Listen, can you hear it?”

At first, Castiel doesn’t, his senses all to wrapped up in trying to locate Dean. He disconnects from his Grace long enough to listen with human ears, to the sounds of the forest, the squirrels settling down in their nests, birds flying from branch to branch; a couple makes idle chatter before getting ready for bed; Sam snores, long and loud and somewhat sickly. A guitar plays, from a distance far enough away that Castiel, for a fleeting second, doesn’t think it’s real.

Solemnly, the tune goes on for several bars, slower than was probably intended. A voice doesn’t join in—still, Castiel knows the words. “Every time I come back here, I hear it,” the man continues, taking a pull of his cigarette and blowing smoke through his nose. “Started a couple years ago, thought I was just imaginin’ things. Sure, you hear the stories about ghosts in these hills, but I’ll tell you one thing.” He turns his gaze to Castiel. “That ain’t Hank.”

Unbidden, Castiel chuckles. “No, it’s not.”

“Figure it’s been, what… four, five years?” He sniffles, tamps out the cigarette in the ashtray at his foot. “People talk, make up stories ‘bout who it is. Probably some drifter, or one of the locals just lookin’ to scare some people. I mean, Halloween after all.”

Right—October. Almost four and a half years, if Castiel’s recollection is correct. “Has anyone tried to find where it’s coming from?”

The man shrugs, replacing nicotine with alcohol. “Park rangers, couple college kids from out of state. Hell, some fuckin’… ghost hunters or some shit showed up, said Hank’s ghost was holing up in a cabin up on the top of LeConte. But no one’s found nothin’.” Another sniffle; he wipes his eye. “This is a sad one.”

_They’re all sad_, Castiel wants to say. He listens, closing his eyes and tipping his face to the moon. The guitar twangs along to a rhythm that Castiel has heard once, maybe twice in his life. A month before he left, Dean found a record and played it on a loop for maybe an hour, and together, they danced under the scant lighting in the library, while the rest of the hunters slept. They broke apart long enough to replace the needle, and every time, they fell back into each other’s embrace, and pretended in the morning that it meant nothing. Two lonely people in the night, seeking the comfort of a warm body, of a kindred soul.

“_Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly_,” Castiel sings, low and still as the night. From the neighboring patio, the man hums along, fingers dancing along the arm of the chair.

_The midnight train is whining low. I’m so lonesome I could cry_.

-+-

Somewhere between Gatlinburg Skylift Park and the Ben & Jerry’s—Castiel lost track of exactly where they were about half a mile ago—sits a curio shop with a wooden sign hanging from the awning, reading Old Smokies Antiques. Nothing about it looks out of the ordinary—all of the shops look the same after a while—but Sam won’t stop looking at a carved bear sitting by the front door, upright with a fish between its paws. It almost reaches the ceiling, standing a clear two feet taller than Sam at his hightest. At its feet is a plastic bucket full of pennies and quarters, with a plaque reading ‘Proceeds Benefit the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.’

“That probably took what, months?” Sam says, offhand, glancing over to Castiel. “And then moving it? Or do you think someone carved it here?”

Castiel knows where he’s going with this, knows that in his heart, Sam wants to believe that this is Dean’s handiwork. Neither of them know for sure, and touching it gives Castiel no evidence to say who the rightful carpenter is. _It’s just a bear_, he tells himself. Just a large oak bear, with scorch marks and more rings than he can count.

The radio plays an older country station from inside, the song breaking into idle chatter between the two disc jockeys. Miniature figurines and dreamcatchers line the shelves; several rows of old coins and dollar bills fill the glass shelves by the register; paintings of mountain scenes and cabins hang from the walls; larger sculptures sit amongst wooden rocking chairs and tables, all of them sitting atop rugs, some animal pelts, others woven. Cedar and lavender waft through the air.

“None of these things are antique,” Castiel whispers to Sam in the back of the store. He picks up a marble statuette of an elephant and reads the price tag on the bottom—fifty dollars. “Though, I think we’re being robbed.”

“That’s why we never stayed in tourist traps like this,” Sam laughs, then faces a revolving display of necklaces and bracelets. “Most we could ever afford is food.”

“Can I help you two with anything today?” a voice chimes from an aisle over, overly enthusiastic about possibly making a sale. Castiel turns to find a young woman looking at them, with bright blue hair tied back into a bun and wooden butterflies dangling from her ears. Brown eyes watch them, and brighten even more when Sam spins around, her smile infectious. If only Castiel could join in. “Have I seen you before?” she asks Sam, a hand on her hip. “You look familiar.”

To that, Castiel looks to Sam, and Sam looks back, a question in his eyes. Castiel doesn’t bother telling her no.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” Sam starts, flicking a glance over to the bear sitting outside the shop. “Whose work is that out there? Because it’s—”

“Beautiful, right?” she beams. Her nametag reads Diane. “We actually got him about a year ago. A guy came in, a local, and said he had an idea for a project but he wouldn’t be able to move it. So I told him, we’ve got room in the back if he wanted to try his hand, and lo and behold, he came through.”

A skip to her step, she leads them to another section of the store, where another large statue sits, of a tree adorned with owls and squirrels, with a hawk at the top. “This one’s more recent. He actually finished last week, it took him about eight months? See, this is cool,” and she points to a spot along the side, where a massive black scorch rips through the wood. “He uses trees that fell during the wildfires a few years ago. People’ll pay extra if it’s burnt, because of the history, y’know?”

Castiel nods along, hands shoved in his coat pockets. The rosary tickles his fingertips, and he grabs onto it, quelling the shake in his hands. The more he looks, the more he recognizes the patterns etched into the wood, pressure wounds that nobody else would notice, if they weren’t looking for it. One such wound, Castiel finds in a blackened knot, a barely-there signature, hidden within the wood.

_DW_.

Sam’s brows lift when Castiel points it out, his gasp coming out as a choked cough. “Can I ask you something?” Sam says, clearing his throat. He fishes for a photo in his wallet and pulls out a small two-by-four sheet. “He’s not in trouble, but is this him?”

He hands over Dean’s photograph—and Diane grins, brown eyes glowing. “Yeah, that’s him. See, I knew there was something familiar about you,” she says, jabbing a finger into Sam’s chest. “You’re brothers, aren’t you? He never told me he had family.”

Castiel frowns. That doesn’t sound like him. But it fits—Dean reinvented himself here, apparently living as an artist in a tourist town, while also strumming along on his guitar in the middle of the night. The latter of which, Castiel hasn’t told Sam about, and probably won’t. Diane knows his present, not his past—and his past is back.

“We’re actually looking for him,” Castiel says. “It’s been a few years since we’ve last heard from him, and someone said he might be living in the area.”

Diane nods along, both hands behind her back. “He lives up on Mount LeConte, about three miles up the trail. You said you haven’t seen him in a while?” she asks, turning her gaze to Sam.

Sam nods, shoulders sagging ever so slightly. “Four years, just about,” he says, to Diane’s surprise.

“Then there’s something you should probably know,” Diane says before leading them toward the register, where two women ogle over a collection of gemstone necklaces. “He’s mute.”

Castiel’s heart stops—Sam stops breathing.

Diane leans against the counter, elbows atop the glass. “I don't know how it happened, but he’s got this gnarly—” she motions across her throat “—right here. He said something about a bar fight, but… It’s like someone tried to rip his throat out.” She shudders. “Anyway, he signs. My mom’s deaf, and I’ve been teaching him every time he comes in.”

“How often does he come by?” Sam asks, rough. Trying not to cry again, Castiel suspects.

“Least three times a week,” Diane shrugs. “Normally Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. What’s today, Thursday?” She looks over to the calendar on the wall and squints. “Yeah, Thursday. Maybe you can catch him tomorrow if you’re still in town? There’s lots of stuff to do in town in the meantime. There’s a fall festival throughout the month, and the craftsmen’s fair is this weekend!”

“We’ll have to visit,” Sam assures, plastering on his best grin.

Castiel mirrors him, aware of the perpetual sadness in his eyes. Diane looks at him, almost like she suspects.

“Before you go,” Diane says, running around to the complete opposite end of the store, dodging customers and displays and a bird that seems intent on making itself at home underneath a chair. She comes back with two wooden bears, both on four legs with their noses raised. “He dropped these off this morning. They’re on the house.”

Castiel turns it over in his hand, running his thumb along the bear’s spine. “Thank you,” he says. Sam agrees with a nod.

Back on the sidewalk, the sun beats down, the temperature rising with the passing minutes. Not nearly as bad as yesterday, but Castiel longs to take off his coat as they walk back to their motel, all the way across town. “So we know he’s here,” Sam says after a while, running both hands through his hair. “And where he possibly lives. Three miles up a mountain, though?”

“The total length of the trail is seven,” Castiel adds. Sam’s eyes widen. “Do you think we’ll have time today? Or should we wait—”

“Today,” Sam decides, determination coursing through his soul, hot enough to burn bright gold. “We’ll just pack up our stuff and go… hiking, I don’t know.” He stops, laughs. “God, I haven’t been hiking in years.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve never tried,” Castiel adds, and Sam laughs.

The music stations change the more they walk, shifting from country to classical to modern rock. A clunky guitar rhythm catches Castiel’s attention, the sound pouring through the open door of a guitar shop. Inside, Castiel spots an auburn-haired man with a strap around his neck, a jet-black Martin in his hands; he strums along for a short minute before lifting his hands to sign something at the man at the register, and smiles when the man leads him to the back wall. He takes the guitar with him—

And Castiel stops, all of the blood in his body growing cold. There, bow-legged saunter and all, is Dean Winchester. Missing for four years, and now, found in Tennessee.

“What is it?” Sam asks, walking back to where Castiel stands. “Did you see some—”

Sam sucks in a breath. Despite the heat, Castiel shivers. “We need to pack,” Castiel says. “Now.”

-+-

The Impala is parked at the Trillium Gap trailhead, the motor still ticking when Castiel pulls up to park beside it. Dean is nowhere to be seen, though, much to his lament. “Do you think he hikes this?” Sam asks, hopping out of the passenger seat, duffel slung over his shoulder. “I mean, he’s a strong runner, but come on, this is like… straight up.”

Sincerely, Castiel hopes Dean doesn’t hike every time he plans to go into town. Stepping off the asphalt and into the gravel, Castiel looks around in every direction, past the burnt trees and new growth, past the downed limbs and cars in almost every spot. A gravel path on the far end of the lot catches his attention, along with a single mailbox with the number 124 painted on the side.

_It can’t be that easy_.

“So what, he’s got an ATV or something?” Sam wonders aloud, crossing his arms. A pause. “Shit, he does, doesn’t he?”

“It’s starting to look that way.” Shrugging, Castiel hoists his bag higher. Three miles. Physically, he can do this—Sam, though, is another question. “I miss my wings.”

Sam laughs, low and exasperated. “Y’know what, right now? Me too.”

Based on Castiel’s internet search before they left Kansas, Mount LeConte stands at almost sixty-six hundred feet in elevation. Castiel feels every inch of it as they walk. The trail itself begins somewhere around three thousand and only climbs from there, not exactly a steep summit, but close. Dean’s driveway follows the trail for a while before branching off and heading deeper into the woods, where the gravel path turns to wet earth, the scent of decaying wood cloyingly thick in the air.

Here, nature is wild and pristine, from the aging trees to the creek in the distance, present but out of range. The path ascends higher, leaving the hiking trail below them and growing fainter, more distant. If something happened, no one would find them for days—maybe that’s how Dean wants it. Private, to the point of isolation, where no one will find him, even if he needs help.

“I feel like God’s testing us,” Sam says about three quarters of the way there, finishing off a water bottle and shoving it back into his bag. He sweats with the heat of the afternoon, shirt soaked under his armpits and around his collar. “Dean’s a hardhead, yes, but did he really have to move all the way up here? What are we, a mile up?”

“Close.”

Castiel finally caves and shucks his off, along with his suit jacket, and stops long enough to place them inside his duffel. Warm air meets his forearms when he pushes up his shirtsleeves, not even the shade offering much relief. Closing his eyes, he looks to the sky and searches for Dean’s pulse, finding it not too far off. About thirty more minutes, and they’ll hopefully be there, or at least somewhere they can rest. Now, Castiel understands why he uses the ATV.

The wind picks up the higher they climb, and with it, the temperature falls, eighties plummeting into the sixties within a few hundred feet in elevation. Clouds build; the trees rustle, branches bowing. A thrum picks up, not of a soul, but of an instrument, the picking moving from just a noise of notes to something coherent, familiar.

Sam must hear it too. His eyes brighten, and his breath, previously coming in heated pants, slows as he comes to a stop, to listen. “Susanne wasn’t lying,” he says, looking around. Castiel lets out a breath, awash in the quiet notes making their way through the forest. Out of sight of Sam, his wings twitch, expanding to their full breadth, basking. Sam covers his mouth. “I can’t believe he’s actually here.”

_It’s been too long_, Castiel thinks. Strap held tighter, he walks on, with Sam at his side, no longer lagging in exhaustion. The closer they get, the more distinctive the song becomes, and the trees open up around them, revealing the rolling mountaintops to their left, the canopies of trees dyed in yellows and oranges, all under a clouded sky. Chimney smoke wafts, growing thicker. If he listens close enough, Castiel can almost hear the crackle of the wood. He could be imagining it—but he swears, he hears someone singing along.

_I wandered so aimless, life filled with sin, I wouldn't let my Dear Savior in._

Sam jogs ahead at the first sight of the log cabin, sitting in a clearing and protected by a rock wall on all sides, save for a gap large enough for a wooden gate. A porch wraps around the front and side of the home, facing the mountain and the sun attempting to break through the clouds; on said porch, a man rocks back and forth in a chair, eyes closed, head turned skyward. His mouth moves along with the lyrics.

_Then Jesus came like a stranger in the night. Praise the Lord, I saw the light_.

All Castiel can do is stare, transfixed, both hands on the stone wall. Sam joins him, lingering a few steps back, both hands white knuckling the strap to his bag. Even if Dean can’t talk, he can sing, voice as low as the clouds rolling in, scratchy from disuse but still there.

“Dean,” Sam whispers. His hands shake; Castiel touches his shoulder, holds him steady.

Effortlessly, Dean’s fingers move, strumming out chords, oblivious to just who stands a few dozen feet away. Rather than alert him, Sam climbs over the wall and steps down without a sound, and Castiel follows, putting his weight on the balls of his feet. Grass lines the dirt path leading up to the cabin, a few scattered wildflowers littering the yard and creeping up toward the shrubbery. Dead and dying leaves rest on the front porch and the pitched tin roof.

It’s a modest home, large enough for two people if need be: windows let in light at every angle, solar panels perch on both sides of the roof, and a well sits on a far corner of the property. No electricity—nothing but Dean and his guitar, and the setting sun.

_I saw the light, I saw the light, no more darkness, no more night_.

Sam steps up onto the porch, no longer keeping quiet. It’s been too long for both of them, and Castiel’s hands itch the longer he stands there, watching, waiting for Dean to look at them, to acknowledge their presence. Anger flashes through his Grace, only to diffuse just as quickly upon catching Dean’s gaze.

The strings twang. Pale green eyes look between both of them on the porch, knuckles white where he holds the fretboard. Band-Aids cover his fingers and scars mar the rest, some angry and red, others silvered with age. Aside from the graying hair around his temples and the wrinkles around his eyes, Dean hasn’t aged a day—the scar ripped across his throat, though, destroys every other thought in Castiel’s head.

_Self-inflicted_ is his first thought, followed by, _He cut Michael out by himself_.

Dean’s expression never changes, lips pulled into a tight line. He sets the guitar down and stands on shaky legs, looking solely at Sam. Sam makes the first move, and throws Dean into his arms, shoulders shaking with the weight of four years’ worth of sadness rushing free, all at once. Dean hugs him back, eventually, and Castiel just looks at him from over Sam’s shoulder, watching wetness gather in the corner of Dean’s eyes, spilling down the crease of his nose.

_Dean_, Castiel says through his Grace—and Dean’s soul hums, like church bells on a Sunday morning. Loud and demanding, beckoning him in. A welcome home.

_Now I’m so happy, no sorrow in sight. Praise the Lord, I saw the light_.

-+-

Rather than talk or communicate in any manner, Dean makes soup. From Castiel’s walk around the property minutes ago, Dean has a relatively healthy-sized garden, along with several pumpkin plants and corn stalks, all of them planted in the only spot of direct sunlight the mountain offers. Castiel watched him harvest some of the vegetables, Dean apparently uninterested in letting anyone help, or close to him, for that matter.

Something happened to him, while he was here. Something Dean has no interest in telling either of them, as long as he can help it. Instead of prying like he wants, Castiel settles for sitting at the kitchen island, hands folded atop the table, while Dean mans the stove, washing produce and chopping them into pieces before throwing them into a sizeable pot. The cabin smells like late fall by the time he brings it to a boil, and together, Dean leads them back onto the porch, rocking chairs facing the setting sun, its last rays shining through the clouds.

Sam fidgets in his chair, elbows resting atop his knees. He wants to talk, Castiel knows, but Dean won’t budge, his attention focused more on the carving in his hand than his own family. The longer they sit there, the more Sam festers, and Castiel sighs, curling his wings around himself to shelter himself from the threat of violence.

“Dean,” Sam starts, measured, wringing his hands. “You’ve gotta say something, or… or sign, whatever it is you do nowadays—”

_Like what_? Dean signs, frantic and with an edge of anger. _What do you want me to say, I’m sorry_?

Shoving the carving into his pocket, Dean walks over to the bannister, only a few feet from Sam, and a world away from Castiel. Dean won’t even look at him anymore, the sadness in his eyes replaced with anger, with resentment. For being found, Castiel suspects—for the past coming back to haunt him.

“I’d like you to say _something_,” Sam answers. Standing, he towers over Dean now, no longer just physically. “Come on, man. At least an explanation. We’ve been here an hour, and you haven’t even said hi—”

_I’m trying to live my fucking life, Sam_, Dean says, halfway to shoving Sam across the porch. _I thought you would’ve gotten the hint, I’m better off here than I was anywhere else_—

“That’s—That’s fucking bullshit, man.” Hands in his hair, Sam shakes his head. “We had this, Dean. We were so close, and you just—You can’t run away from all your problems! That’s all you’ve ever done, and you thought we wouldn’t look for you?”

Dean glowers. _I didn’t want you to. I told you, I’m better off here_—

“Don’t lie,” Sam laughs. “Just stop lying for two seconds and tell us the truth. You don't think we deserve that?”

For a while, Dean stands there, chewing his lip, fingers twitching at his sides. Castiel watches him, the anger in his eyes and the panic of being found, of having his life seemingly uprooted once again. _I’m not going back_, he tells Sam, then turns his attention to Castiel. _How did you find me_?

“We know someone—”

_No_, Dean tells Sam. _I wanna hear it from him_.

Castiel stands, belatedly wishing he had his coat to protect him. The rosary is still in his pocket—no use clinging to it now. “There’s a hunter in New Orleans,” he says. “She’s been helping us try to find you. We’ve followed her tips for years, and we swore that if nothing came of it this time, that we’d stop, and we’d move on.”

_You should’ve left me alone_, Dean signs back—

And Sam grabs him by the shoulder, shoving him into the bannister. “You don’t get to do this,” he growls, right in Dean’s face. “You don’t get to be a hypocrite, Dean. You always bitched at me for not looking for you in Purgatory, and we’re not supposed to try? We’re just supposed to—to leave you, and that makes everything right? Shit, do you even know how much this hurts?”

_I don’t care_. Dean shoves back, teeth bared. _I had him, Sam. I cut the bastard out of my damn throat, and I killed him, and I didn’t need your help. I was doing you a favor_—

“Bullshit,” Castiel says before he can stop himself. Dean glares at him—Sam’s jaw drops. “You pushed us away because you’re so hellbent on killing yourself that you couldn’t see that someone gave a damn about you. Do you really think so little of yourself?”

_You know what the answer is_, Dean says with a snarl. _You should’ve just—_

Sam punches him, square in the jaw. Stumbling, Dean backs into the bannister and cradles his face, all before rushing at Sam and seizing him by the front of his shirt. Castiel watches the scuffle in a fog, less shocked by the tangle of limbs and thrown fists, and more by the fact that Dean _talks_, rough and sounding like he ate an entire bag of glass. “You should’ve let me die,” he rasps, chest seizing. Blood paints his teeth, and not from the hit to the face. “This was my fault, all of it. I said yes to Michael, I have blood on my hands, and you think I’m supposed to live with this? Is that what you think?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, panicked. Bleeding—he’s _bleeding_, red dripping from the corner of his lips. “Dean, you need to—”

“I’m repenting,” Dean says, before a violent cough works its way from his throat. Blood splatters onto the floorboards and into his hand, seeping through his fingers. Sam backs away, halfway to a sob; Castiel rushes forward, but Dean shoves him back, smearing a bloodied hand on his shirt. “Don’t,” he chokes, sucking in breath after breath, gagging on his own blood. “Don’t—No.”

The screen door slams closed with his departure, leaving Castiel and Sam in his wake, the only evidence of his existence being the blood at their feet and Castiel’s stained shirt. “Cas,” Sam croaks, falling to his knees. Castiel stares at the handprint, hands shaking. “Cas, what did we—”

“It wasn’t us,” Castiel says, automatic. Covers the stain with his own hand. _It’s not our fault_, he thinks, fist clenched. _It’s not his fault, either._

-+-

It takes Dean another thirty minutes to resurface from the bathroom, and another thirty to sit in the living room, hands shaking with a rag over his mouth. Eyes bloodshot, he sits on the couch facing the fireplace, simply breathing, existing in the same space. Sam sits before the fire, back turned to the both of them. Castiel leaves the kitchen and joins Dean, their thighs pressed close.

Dean burns hot beside him, his first touch a furnace when he grabs Castiel’s knee, digging his nails in. Castiel forgot how warm he was, and not just from the fever, dwindling now that the spell has passed. Instinctively, Castiel draws an arm around his waist, urging him closer, for Dean to rest his head atop his shoulder. Shivers faintly wrack Dean’s body, and tears pool in his eyes, spilling onto Castiel’s shirt. He breathes, ragged, and Castiel holds his hand between them, until Dean motions toward Sam.

“Sam,” Castiel says, quiet. Sam turns without a word, lips a thin line until he finds Dean. After that, he softens, his back to the fire.

_Sorry_, Dean signs one-handed, still breathing into the rag. He lowers it after a moment, mouth no longer bloody, save for the split lip. _I’m an asshole_.

“At least you admit it,” Sam says, ducking his head to hide his smile. “You wanna tell us what that was about?”

The weight of Dean’s sigh leaves Castiel just as winded, the strength leaving his body in sympathy. _Assumed you’re were gonna force me to go home_, Dean says, eyes slipping shut. _Panicked_.

“Dean, we weren’t…” Sam stops, scrubs his face. “We weren’t gonna force you to do anything. We just wanted to see you. You’ve been gone for four years, we were just…”

“We’re happy you’re alive,” Castiel adds. “We didn’t really think this far ahead.”

“Never have,” Sam says. “We’re just glad to see you, no strings attached. I thought you’d settle down on a beach, though, not in the mountains.”

_This is as far as I got_. Dean shrugs as much as he can, green eyes glowing in the firelight. _I drove as far as I could, and I never left._

Gentle, Castiel sneaks a finger beneath the waistband of Dean’s jeans, out of sight of Sam; Dean flushes, incrementally leaning in further. Castiel missed this, the intimacy of sitting close to each other, sharing the same space, even with Sam in the room. “What happened?” Castiel asks.

“You can tell us.” Sam nods, tucking his feet under his thighs. “You never even left a note, man. One morning we woke up and all your stuff was gone.”

It takes Dean a few minutes to come up with the answer, his silence deafening amidst the crackle of the fireplace. An owl hoots from a nearby tree; a chill creeps in through the open windows. _I found a spell_, Dean says. Castiel’s heart sinks. _I figured it out, but I didn’t want you guys to talk me out of it. The box was one thing, but this_? He shakes his head, pulling away from Castiel’s grasp.

Some of the words, Dean mangles, his knowledge of sign language limited to casual conversation. Sam corrects him, filling in the blanks with words he probably learned from Eileen, words only hunters would understand. _I took the archangel blade_, Dean starts. _We still had some of the ingredients left over, the blood of a saint, holy oil, all that stuff. I… I ran. I drove as far as I could before Michael figured out what I was doing. And I fought like hell, just getting here._ He stops to wipe his eyes, mouth working around a sob.

More than anything, Castiel wants to hold him, to ease the ache in his body, to heal the wound Michael left behind. Not until he finishes, though—both of them deserve Dean’s explanation.

_I cut him out of me_, Dean manages. _Burned a ring in the woods and everything. I had to bleed him out of me, and for an hour, I just… It hurt. Every second of it felt like he was setting my body on fire, screaming at me, tearing at my head_—

“It’s okay,” Sam whispers, a hand to Dean’s knee. “Breathe, okay?”

Dean takes a moment, steadies himself. Castiel whispers a prayer into his hair, his full palm splayed over Dean’s side. _I got him out, and I burnt him alive, but he ripped my throat out._ For emphasis, Dean lifts his chin to bear the scar, about six inches long, ripping across his neck; reddened veins spread from the wound, not quite healed, even years afterward. _A hiker found me and put me in the back of his truck, thought I’d gotten mauled by a bear or something. Doctors tried to fix everything, but… I can’t talk_. He sniffles. _Every time I try, it rips back open. Probably exactly what the bastard wanted, too._

Sam stands after he finishes, hands clenched at his sides, a definite wobble to his voice when he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and offers Dean a hand. With the last of his energy, Dean throws his arms around Sam’s neck, and Sam holds him back just as tightly, face buried in Dean’s throat. “You should’ve said something. We could’ve gotten you help, or taken you to a hospital—”

“Shut up,” Dean croaks. Pulling back, he reaches for the rag again and places it over his mouth. Nothing comes up, thankfully. _Didn’t wanna bother you. Either of you_. With that, he turns to Castiel, the sadness in his eyes immeasurable. Castiel’s heart falters, lungs fighting for breath. _I didn’t wanna leave, but I didn’t have any other choice_.

_You did_, Castiel wants to say. Dean could’ve told them, and they could’ve conducted the ritual in the safety of their own home, where they could’ve taken care of him. Instead, all Dean has left was a scar and barely a voice, all alone in the woods. Rather than speak, Castiel pulls him into an embrace, Dean’s arm pinned between them, his own around Dean’s neck. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair, and he shivers, shoulders wracked with sobs. “It’s okay now,” Castiel says, then whispers into his ear, “You’re safe.”

-+-

Dean may not talk much, but he does sing.

Long after Sam falls asleep in the only guest room, Castiel lies on the couch with a blanket draped over his body, the fire still crackling, the last of the logs smoldering. Sleep doesn’t come, not that he needs it, but it would be nice to relax long enough to rest. The silence grates at his nerves, every movement outside startling him awake. Sometimes, the foundation settles, others, an animal ambles by. Once, Castiel swears he sees a bear staring at him through the glass.

In motels, Castiel could always concentrate on the road noise or someone’s snores, or the neighbor’s conversation next door. Constant white noise, Dean called it—here, all Castiel hears is nature itself, and the light padding of footsteps over the floors, disappearing out the front door.

Absently, Castiel hugs his pillow tighter, Dean’s scent washing over his senses. The familiar scratch of Dean’s guitar starts up, and a tune begins shortly after, this one unfamiliar, but still managing to tear at Castiel’s heart. Dean’s voice, raspy and so foreign now, joins in.

Before Castiel can think better of it, he climbs off the couch, and heads for the door.

_Oh the rain is slowly fallin’, and my heart is so sad,_  
_Six more miles, I’ll leave my darlin’, leave the best friend I ever had._

Castiel watches Dean from the doorway, leaning up against the jamb while Dean sings, whisper-quiet but haunting. Now, Castiel understands why the residents in town can hear him—a night like this, and Castiel could hear a pin drop. Whether or not Dean notices him, he doesn’t stop until he finishes the song in its entirety, still strumming away after his voice dies out.

In another life, Dean could be a professional at this, just from the music he makes with his bare hands. The question remains, if he ever regained his voice, if he would continue; sincerely, Castiel hopes he would.

“You can still sing,” Castiel says during a pause, quiet as the night. Dean looks up at him and leans the guitar up against the wall. The moon highlights his face, the utterly haunted look in his eyes even more pronounced; Castiel touches him without thinking, thumbing over the curve of his cheek, to the sallow skin beneath his eyes. “He didn’t take that from you.”

“I can’t go above this,” Dean whispers. He leans into Castiel’s touch, cheeks flushed. “Can you look at it? ‘Cause the doctors say it can’t be fixed, and I’m… I can’t afford to go back.”

“Come with me,” Castiel says, extending a hand.

Together, they sit on the porch, legs crossed and bodies pressed close. The dark of the night surrounds them, concealing Castiel’s fingers as they caress Dean’s throat, over the gnarled scar that’s never quite healed, even on the outside. It caves along the centermost depression, blood-warm and horrifically thin. _How has he survived like this_? “It took an hour,” Dean says, eyes shut. “He kept saying he was gonna kill me. He made it hurt, Cas, I’ve never… Not even in Hell.”

Castiel swallows, sucks in a breath. “How long were you in the hospital?”

“Couple weeks,” Dean mumbles. Castiel lets him go, and he lowers his head, looking down at his lap. “I wasn’t awake for most of it. They tried to let me heal while I was out, but nothing they did took.” He laughs, distraught. “How am I alive? I should be dead, man, he… He actually broke me.”

Dean almost collapses into him when Castiel cups his cheeks, his tears scalding where they slide against Castiel’s skin. “You’re far from broken,” Castiel assures, forehead against Dean’s. Longing rushes into him, and his wings expand with it, aching to close in around Dean, to comfort him at a level Dean could never understand. “The fact that you survived should be testament enough.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” Shaking his head, Dean shrinks further into himself; he grabs Castiel’s wrists, though, holding him close. “I thought about you, a lot,” he confesses, tears in his eyes.

“Dean,” Castiel says—

Dean stops him with a hand to his chest, over the bloodied mark he left earlier. “Don't,” he says, louder than he probably planned. “’Cause if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna chicken out, and I can’t—I can’t live like that anymore.” He stops long enough to breathe, fist clenched in Castiel’s shirt. “I wanted to call you, I swear. But every time, I’d chicken out, and you wouldn’t’ve heard me anyway, and—”

With a gentle touch, Castiel shushes him, a hand to his face. Dean covers it with his own, turning into it, starved. “I couldn’t feel you, for the longest time,” Castiel says, leaning closer. “Can I be honest?”

Slowly, Dean nods.

“I’ve sensed your longing since the day we met,” he admits. Dean tenses, but eventually softens, head pressed to Castiel’s shoulder. Shamelessly, Castiel curls his wings around Dean, both arms holding him close. “I tried to ignore it for so long, but you suffocated me, even when we weren’t close. Ever since you left… I haven’t felt a thing. And I started to wonder if it was all a lie, if everything we went through was…” _If you didn’t feel the same_, dies on Castiel’s tongue. They aren’t anything to each other, but sometimes, Castiel imagined they were lovers on opposite ends of the room, waiting for each other to take the first step.

The night they danced together, Castiel remembers Dean’s breath on his neck, palms sweaty in his grip. There, Dean enveloped his every sense. A month later, Castiel felt nothing at all.

“I tried not to think about you,” Dean mumbles into his shoulder. “You and Sammy, and everyone, and it hurt like hell, knowing what I did, but I… I’m fucked up, Cas. I fucked up so bad, and I couldn’t go back to you like this. Some… broken shell.”

Petting through Dean’s hair doesn’t make it any easier, but it does calm them both. The ache behind Castiel’s eyes burns bright, and he inhales, nosing into the curve of Dean’s throat. “I thought you were dead,” he says, barely audible even to himself. “But we kept looking, and I prayed every night, that we’d find you somewhere, and that I could…” He shudders a sigh. “I love you too much to let you go.”

In every scenario, Castiel always expected Dean to push him away, to fight him—to run. Rather, Dean lets go, body and soul, and falls into Castiel, clinging desperately to his shirt, to any stretch of skin he can find. He weeps, worst of all, and Castiel just drags him as close as he can, hiding his tears. “I never stopped,” Dean hiccups. “I shouldn’t’ve ran.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Castiel says, throat tight. “Sam had a mid-life crisis while you were gone.”

“Shit.” Dean laughs, breaking into a sob. “Please tell me you didn’t let him shave his head.”

“I talked him out of it.” In reality, Castiel ripped the clippers from his hand and talked him down for two hours. That had been three weeks after. Pulling back, Castiel cradles Dean’s face once again, close enough for their noses to touch. “You missed so much, Dean.”

“Missed you more,” Dean croaks. “Wish I could talk.”

“I don’t know if I can heal it,” Castiel says, to Dean’s whine. “The moment you cut yourself with that blade, the damage was done, and Michael made sure it was permanent.”

Dean grunts, fists Castiel’s shirt tighter. “Not what I wanted to hear.”

“I know.” He takes a moment to listen to the earth, to the chaotic swath of Dean’s emotions crashing into him, and melts into Dean, wings drawing him into a cocoon. “I may not be able to fix it, but I might have a solution.”

Sniffling, Dean exhales. “Listening.”

-+-

A knock to the front door startles Castiel out of a dream, body gone taut under the blanket. Sometime during the night, the fire died down to nothing more than ash, and the screen door had been left open, probably in Dean’s haste to go back to bed. The guitar sits by the chimney, propped up in its case.

Nothing about it seems out of the ordinary—nothing except for Mary Winchester knocking, eyes wide when she spots Castiel on the couch. She nearly drops the duffel in her hand, and Castiel almost falls off the couch in a blind panic. Mary is here—Mary knows where Dean lives. And she never said anything about it.

“Castiel,” Mary says once Castiel meets her on the other side of the screen, a frown on her lips. “How—What are you doing here? And what happened to your—” She motions to his shirt.

Looking down at himself, Castiel sighs through his nose. “Nothing concerning. I should be asking you the same question.”

Mary’s gaze lingers on the stain for a moment, then over his shoulder, never quite looking right at him. “I brought breakfast,” she says in consolation, one hand white-knuckling the backpack slung over her shoulder. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here, though. Is Dean—”

“He’s asleep.” Castiel blinks. “I think. Sam’s here too.”

“Sam’s here?” comes another voice. Castiel’s stomach clenches even further, the taste of betrayal heavy on his tongue. Jack walks away from Mary’s ATV and steps up the gravel path, hands behind his back. He brightens upon seeing Castiel, and runs up to the door, tripping over his own feet. He’s taller now, skin tanned from being on the road, his innocence hardened a bit, enough to make him look more human, lived in. “Hi, dad.”

Castiel can’t help the way he softens, some of his residual anger dwindling. “It’s been a while, Jack.”

“Mary’s been taking me to national parks,” he explains. “We killed a Rougarou last week.”

“Oh, did you?” He quirks a brow at Mary, who shrugs. “I’d like to talk to Mary, if you don’t mind. I’m sure either Sam or Dean are awake by now.”

Stepping out of the way, Castiel waits for Jack to rush inside, heading past the living room and down the hall. In the interim, Castiel walks outside and shuts the door behind him, joining Mary by the rocking chairs, where she sits, duffel left on the floor.

She doesn’t talk—doesn’t so much as look at him, and honestly, Castiel can’t blame her. “I probably should’ve told you, about this,” Mary explains, hands folded between her knees. “Dean told me he didn’t want to involve you in it.”

Tenderly, Castiel rubs the bridge of his nose. “We should’ve been involved from the beginning,” he says, without malice. He can’t bring himself to fight after yesterday. This wasn’t Mary’s fault either, but she still turned a blind eye every time he asked if she might know where Dean was, changed the topic every time Sam even ventured close. “But you saw how miserable we were, and you never… You could’ve at least told us he was alive.”

Mary sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I knew how you would react, if I told you what happened to him,” she says. Around them, a chilled wind breezes past, blowing orange leaves from their branches; Mary shivers, and Castiel belatedly wishes he could offer her his coat, still lying on the back of the couch. “Two years ago, I stopped in town for the night and heard someone talking about the ghost singing from the top of one of the mountains. People were concerned it was—”

“The ghost of Hank Williams, yes,” Castiel finishes.

Softly, Mary smiles. “Anyway. I heard it as soon as the sun set, and I couldn’t sleep. Something about it sounded so… hollow, like there was a story there. Something in me just… couldn’t leave it alone, and I hiked until it stopped.” Looking up, she meets Castiel’s gaze, the sun casting an ethereal light in her eyes. Her hair has gone gray around the edges, her age catching up to her in ways Castiel never expected. She’s still so young—she shouldn’t look like the rest of them, shouldn’t have callouses on her fingertips. “I didn’t know where to go, but I kept going until I smelled smoke, and I ended up here, and… He was hurt, Castiel.”

His fingers twitch. “What happened?”

Mary shakes her head. “He won’t admit to it, but I think he… He’s been in a bad place for a long time, Castiel, and I think that night, it caught up to him.”

_Oh_.

“He had just… lost so much blood, and I bandaged his wrists and stayed with him until he woke up.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ve been coming by every month since, just so he can talk to someone that isn’t himself.”

Desperately, Castiel wishes it didn’t make sense, but it does. Two years ago, he remembers waking up to a feeling of utter nothingness, like the light had been ripped out of the sky; for the longest while, he sat in bed waiting for the pulse to start again, his heart beating heavily and threatening to seize. Only after morning did it resume. Initially, he blamed it on the weather, or a fluctuation in his Grace—now, hearing Mary speak, he understands.

And he wishes he didn’t have to.

“I felt him,” Castiel says, chin propped up on his knuckles. “I never told Sam, but I always believed he was still alive. Even then, I can’t begin to explain how much this… How much he hurt both of us, and he never said goodbye.”

“I know.” Mary nods. “I wanted to tell you. Every time I saw you, I wanted to tell you that he was alright, but I… You have to understand.” Reaching over, she takes one of his hands, holding it tight. “He wanted to find himself, to make sense of life again, and being with us would only remind him of everything he’s lost.”

“But we lost him,” Castiel whispers. “We could’ve helped him, or come with him, but he just _left_.”

“But you have him back now.” She squeezes his hand. “We all do. And I think now, more than ever, he’s ready to have us back—”

“Dean said we can go to the pancake house,” Jack interrupts, barely bothering to open the door in his haste. Sam peeks his head around the corner; Dean knocks something over in the kitchen, hissing. “What’s a pancake house?”

Castiel closes his eyes. _I want to go back to bed_.

-+-

Flapjack’s resides about twenty-five minutes from the Trillium Gap Trailhead, down a moderately windy road and in the parking lot across from Carr’s Motel. Constructed of orange wood and topped with a green roof, it looks less like an actual log cabin and more like a tourist destination. Dean apparently frequents here, based on the warm welcome he receives the moment he walks in, his family in tow.

For a Friday morning, traffic is light inside; from what Castiel can tell, only one other family is here, both parents sitting at a table across from three children, all five of them looking haggard, to say the least. A waitress sits them at a large booth by the window and passes out menus.

Here, Dean has to talk—never before has Castiel seen Sam look more shocked. “This is Jack, my brother Sam, my mom Mary, and my—Cas.”

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Tracy, according to her nametag, says, her smile fueled by caffeine. “Dean here’s talked so much about you, but I never thought I’d put faces to names. Can I start y’all off with coffee, juice?”

It takes them a minute to go through the menus. Mostly, Castiel just stares blankly at his, his ears more focused on listening to Dean talk, voice whisper-quiet but fuller, richer with rest. He knocks Castiel’s boot under the table; Castiel ignores him until Tracy takes their order and leaves, and he hooks his toes around the back of Dean’s ankle, dragging him closer.

Overhead, the soft sound of Alan Jackson rings through the speakers. Sam interrupts it by clearing his throat. “I didn’t think you could, y’know, talk,” he says to Dean, their shoulders brushing despite the length of the seat. Jack fidgets at Castiel’s side; Mary watches the cars pass on the road.

“Not loud.” Dean shrugs, unwrapping his cutlery. “Cas said he’s got something that’ll fix it.”

All eyes turn to Castiel, mostly in confusion. “I’ve looked into it, but I never found anything that could heal that kind of a wound,” Mary says.

In truth, Castiel doesn’t know what he has. The one thing he does know, is that in the back of one of the bookshops in town is a secret door, only accessible by password—and there, he hopes he can find what he’s looking for, a spell kept in a book over several millennia old. “I was planning to go research while we we’re in town,” he says, feigning disinterest by looking around the restaurant, at the wooden bears hanging on the walls, at the paintings of bears between tables, at the quilt stitched with bears hanging from a vaulted arch—_Why are there so many bears_? “It’ll heal the wound enough to hopefully restore his voice.”

“Be fuckin’ great if I could talk without coughing,” Dean grumbles.

Tracy returns with four cups of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice for the table. Mary passes around the creamer. Castiel warms his hands with his mug, watching his reflection in the murky contents of the cup. It tastes better than any motel coffee, by far; for some unexplained reason, he misses it.

“Oh,” Jack chimes in, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a crumpled brochure and smooths it out before handing it over to Sam. The front cover reads something about Ober Gatlinburg, with a picture of a gondola. “I saw this in the lobby. Since Dean and Castiel are busy, can we go?”

Sam looks it over, flipping through the pages, before a small smile curls his lips. “Sure, we can do that.”

Dean’s foot continues nudging his own; over the rim of his cup, Castiel smiles. That’s settled, then.

-+-

“Password?” the man lounging in the back of Ober Books and Antiques asks, a paperback open atop his chest and a Stetson sitting over his face. How he can see, Castiel doesn’t know, and Dean doesn’t pry.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel says, “Round Robin,” and receives a one-eyed stare from underneath the brim of the man’s hat. _Purple_—“Rampel.”

“Castiel,” Rampel says and stands, tossing his hat to the side, much to Dean’s horror. He throws Castiel into an embrace, a broad, strong hand slapping between his wings. “We haven’t seen each other in, what, feels like five thousand years?”

A nod. Six thousand is more like it, but at his age, numbers haven’t mattered for a long time. “Something like that.”

Rampel lets him go, but not after patting Castiel’s shoulders hard enough to smart. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“My voice,” Dean rasps. Arms crossed, he makes himself smaller, his eyes never quite leaving the floor. Out of the way of prying eyes, Castiel takes Dean’s wrist in hand, fingertips pressing into his skin, over the scars he never would’ve known were there. “Got anything in that magic room of yours?”

“Oh, my boy,” Rampel says with sympathy. Clasping Dean’s shoulders, he tips up his chin to reveal the scar, then presses his thumb to the center of it, over his windpipe. “This is dark magic, Castiel. You’ve yet to remove the Grace inside.”

Dean blinks, his reply a bit strangled. “Grace?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Castiel mentions. “There’s a book I’m looking for, if you can point us in the right direction.”

“Back corner, section L.” Rampel nods, and the lock slides open from the inside.

Castiel bids him goodbye and steps inside, Dean following close behind; as soon as the latch clicks, Dean laughs, even with the strain. “Hey,” he starts, then grabs Castiel’s bicep, urging him to turn. _I know everyone that works in this town, and you find the one angel here_?

“I have that habit,” Castiel says, meeting Dean’s grin. “Are you alright?”

_Throat’s sore_, Dean signs. His face falls, concern knitting his brow. _You never said anything about there being Grace in me._

Castiel exhales, facing the room. Books adorn every wall of the room, all well-worn hardbacks with leather chipping off the spines. Unorganized copies sit on rolling carts spread throughout the room, all surrounding a large table in the middle of the room. The scent of aging pages overwhelms him the more he thinks about it, even more than Dean’s hand on his shoulder. No insistence, just because he can. “Whenever an angel possesses a human, they leave behind a portion of their Grace, so that if necessary, they can find their host again. In the case of archangels, it’s so that their host will consent, willingly or otherwise.”

To that, Dean swallows, hard. _Sam too_?

A nod. “I tried to remove Lucifer from him, but their blood is… far past the point of entwined. Yours, I should be able to remove, but it’ll take some effort.”

_I’m always here for bad ideas_, Dean says with just a bit of mirth. _So what’re you looking for_?

“I left a book here several decades ago, the last time I visited earth,” Castiel explains, beginning to scan the shelves. Thankfully, Rampel doesn’t keep the shelves too high, but Dean brings over the stepladder anyway, scanning the highest rows. “It should have a blue cross on the bottom of the binding. Some of us visited humans in the past and had them act as scribes. I may have enlightened a man named William Beech to write down a list of archaic rituals to heal the dying.”

_What, like, cure for cancer and that shit_? Dean asks.

“Not exactly.” He moves to another shelf, running his fingers along the tops in the instance he finds something. Several copies of his siblings’ work cross his path, none of their contents particularly interesting. Rampel would never let him take them anyway, this library his prized possession. “Heaven had just recovered from a several decades-long war, and I wanted to keep a history of what spells could be used in the instance another one happened. Gabriel, actually, told me about this spell.”

“Oh,” Dean says aloud, before correcting himself. _Who knew the bastard could be helpful_.

“He was always very selective about who he engaged with,” Castiel says. “He dictated a book once about the art of tying—”

Dean slaps Castiel’s knee before signing, _Found it_, and pulling a red leather-bound book from the top shelf.

Reaching up, Castiel takes it and runs his fingers over the cover, his name carved in blue ink in the righthand corner. “I haven’t thought about this in years,” he says absently, idly flipping through the pages, several of them flaking with age. He finds what he’s looking for towards the back and hands it over to Dean, pointing to where the passage starts.

Only, Dean squints and laughs. _My Latin’s rusty as hell, man_.

“You should study, then,” Castiel shoots back and nudges Dean’s hip. “The most common method of removing Grace is to physically extract it, but Sam almost died when I tried with him, and I’d rather not have your blood on my hands.”

_Rather not die too_, Dean adds. Their fingers touch over the pages while Dean scans the words, Dean’s warmth a beacon. _So what do we need_? _I’ve got a bunch of stuff in the basement, but_—

“You have a basement?” Castiel asks.

_Door’s under the rug in the kitchen_. Dean shrugs. _Not entirely convinced the previous owner had a grow operation at some point, ‘cause I planted some of his stuff out behind the house._

Castiel hums, fighting back a smile. _Interesting_. “All I’ll need is holy oil and to sacrifice my own blood, but the spell itself is the most challenging. And unfortunately,” he pauses, sucks in a deep breath, “I’ll have to bind you, in case you try to fight back.”

Dean blinks, a red flush creeping over his cheeks. _Ask me to dinner first_, he says with an eyeroll.

“I did pay for breakfast, if that counts,” Castiel says. Leaning in close to Dean’s ear, he whispers, breathy, “But that can be arranged, if you want.”

Indignant, Dean squawks. At least this time when he coughs, Castiel has a handkerchief ready.

-+-

A steady rain builds throughout the day and deepens the longer the evening progresses, to the point that a river runs down Dean’s driveway on the way back to the cabin. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s stomach on the back of his ATV, while Sam and Mary follow along in the one Mary rented, with Jack squished between them, looking entirely too happy with the proceedings.

Night falls too early this time of year, the mountains drenched in darkness before seven in the evening, leaving them with nothing but the sounds of rain and the crackling fire. Dean doesn’t keep lights on at night, preferring to store whatever energy he gained from the solar panels, all in case of emergency. _It snows a lot_, he explained, _and I’d like to be able to cook instead of starving to death when I can’t get down the mountain_.

Which makes sense—but makes it harder for Castiel when everyone heads off to bed around midnight, and the fire dies down to nothing but embers. Silence creeps over the cabin, every sound distinct utterly loud. Alone, Castiel sits on the couch while Dean rummages through his bedroom for candles and the basement key. He comes back with both and a few assorted crystal bowls, and a mortar and pestle, if needed. _Not sure what you’re gonna do with all this stuff, but better safe than sorry_, he mouths, hands full.

Castiel takes the key from one of his fingers and smiles, lit by the candlestick in his hand. “This won’t take more than an hour,” he whispers, and lets Dean lead the way.

The basement underneath the kitchen rug can’t be any larger than Dean’s living room, leaving just enough space for a twin bed and a few industrial shelves. Boxes sit on each shelf, some that Castiel remembers from the bunker, others newer, with descriptions written on the sides. All of it comes into view when Dean shuts the door and flips a switch, a single bulb bathing the room in pale yellow light.

“I sleep down here sometimes,” Dean says, setting all of the items down atop a wooden workbench. From the three-cabinet locker, he pulls out a jug of holy oil and a lighter, the former of which, he hands to Castiel. The candles, he arranges to his liking, and lights them all until the room feels warmer, more personable without the glow of the fluorescent bulb. “Especially when it storms. Feels like the thunder’s right on top of you.”

“I can imagine,” Castiel says.

For a while, he watches Dean go about his ritual before shuttering the light, the room glowing a deep orange the second the bulb dims. The last item Dean pulls out is a long strip of silk, definitely not left over from the previous owner. One night, maybe a year before he left, Dean asked Castiel to blindfold him, and Castiel ran his fingers over the bare expanse of Dean’s back, knees bracketing hips, kneading the knots from Dean’s muscles until he could barely move.

Neither of them ever mentioned it again. Some nights, though, Castiel replays the soft sounds Dean made in his head, the words falling from his lips so reminiscent of prayers, that for a split second, Castiel thought Dean might actually want him. Now, years later, he knows for a fact, that Dean does.

Castiel takes the silk, running his thumbs over the material, soft and cool in his hands. “If you need to stop at any time, pray to me,” he says, to Dean’s nod. “But once we start, I won’t be able to stop the process. Whatever happens, whatever the Grace leads you to believe, it’s all a lie, okay?” Cradling Dean’s face, he drops a kiss to Dean’s forehead, his cheek, shivering with the soft noise Dean makes. “I’m not saying this won’t hurt.”

“I know,” Dean says, swallowing. “Where do we go after this, though?” Stepping closer, Dean rests their foreheads together, hands resting over Castiel’s hips. “I don’t—I’m not going back to Kansas, Cas. I can’t, not… Not anymore.”

“And I’m not asking you to.” With a sigh, he drops his head to Dean’s shoulder. “We can make it work here. We can… We’ll sell whatever we can in the bunker, we’ll settle down somewhere. Sam and I haven’t hunted in two years, Dean. All we’ve been doing is dispatching and looking for you. Once you left…” Castiel shakes his head. “What I’m saying is, we’re done. If you want us to stay, we’ll stay, and if you don’t… We’ll figure it out.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t want you to go,” he says. His cold nose touches Castiel’s neck, lips moving, not quite a kiss but so close. “I’m tired of wanting you and not having the guts to call.”

“You have me,” Castiel assures. “We’re here for you, every one of us.”

“Good.” With that, Dean drags him into a hug, warm and everything Castiel has ever craved. “Missed you so damn much, you don’t even…”

“I know.” Castiel drops a feather-light kiss to Dean’s lips, barely a press before he pulls away. “Come with me.”

Together, they strip Dean out of his shirt, all while struggling to ignore the incessant need to stay in contact. Getting Dean on the bed is easy—keeping him still, is a feat Castiel never anticipated. With force, he holds Dean’s wrists and ties him to the wrought iron headboard, and inadvertently exposes the stretch of taut muscle of Dean’s arms, spanning down to his chest and to his stomach, softened with age. Scars mar his skin, glowing beautifully in the candlelight; another night, and Castiel will trace him with his lips, if Dean will let him—sincerely, he hopes that day comes soon.

Climbing onto the bed, Castiel sets the holy oil beside the lone pillow. Dean blinks, eyes half-lidded, but doesn’t speak. “Don’t speak until I tell you,” Castiel says, allowing his blade to drop free from his coat sleeve.

“Do you gotta cut me open?” Dean asks, as strongly as he can manage.

“I have to,” Castiel says, low. He kisses Dean’s cheek to calm him, then over the scar; Dean’s throat bobs when he swallows, and Castiel chases it, startling a gasp from Dean. “Yes or no, Dean. I’ll only ask once.”

“Yeah.” Nodding, Dean bares his neck. “Really want this over with.” _I want him out of me_, rings out louder.

Castiel nods and rears up, one hand braced between Dean’s pecs. His heart pounds. He can do this—he _has_ to. “Hold your breath, Dean.”

Dean sucks in air, and Castiel swipes across the scar, deeply enough to draw blood; Castiel follows it by slicing across his palm, allowing their blood to mingle in Dean’s wound, dripping off his neck and onto the sheets. “Let it out, slow,” Castiel says, waiting until Dean does, his chest spasming on the exhale. White begins to emanate from deep within his throat, illuminating each and every vein, along with the reddened webbing sprouting off of the scar itself.

_That’s it_.

With his free hand, Castiel pulls his rosary from his pocket and places the crucifix over the middle of the incision, where the light burns, springing tears to Dean’s eyes. “Release him,” Castiel starts in Enochian, watching Dean eyes glow bright. “Release him, for this man is righteous in the face of evil. Release him, for he is pure of heart and mind, and the blight suffered upon him is not of this world.” Dean’s hands pull taut, a scream on his lips—blood boils from the wound, black and thick, mingling with the Grace pouring free. “Release the curse set upon his soul—”

“_He’s mine_,” Dean says at full volume, teeth bared, black tinging the corners of his eyes. “_You really thought this would work_—”

“Release the curse set upon his soul,” Castiel continues on, slapping his hand over Dean’s throat. Eyes shut, he pours his Grace into Dean, fighting off the last wave of Michael left inside him. “Release the curse set upon his soul—”

“_You’re just as dumb as I remembered_,” Michael laughs with Dean’s mouth. His hips buck up—Castiel pins him down, repeating the mantra until Michael howls, practically begging for Castiel to kill him, to kill _them_. “_You can’t reach him now, Castiel, I have him_—”

“Expel him, Dean,” Castiel hisses, squeezing. Electric blue flickers; Grace spills between Castiel’s fingers. “Expel him!”

“I expel him,” Dean cries. “I expel him, I expel him—”

And the last of Michael pours from Dean’s mouth, pale and sickly as it fills the air. Castiel grabs hold of it and sets it aflame, the light dying between them, until all Castiel sees is candlelight and Dean’s bleeding throat. “You did it,” Castiel pants and lets him go, long enough to reach for the holy oil and pour it over the wound. With the barest press from his fingers, Castiel watches the incision close, the scar receding into nothing but unbroken skin. “You did it, you’re okay.”

“Holy shit,” Dean croaks. Lying his head back, he settles into the mattress, breath still coming in uneven pants. “Was that—”

“Michael,” he says with a nod. “He’s gone.”

With that, Dean sighs, body going lax; kissing him comes as second nature, Dean’s lips soft against his own. Castiel can’t help but smile, and Dean joins in, his laugh low in his throat. “Think you can untie me?” Dean asks, still hoarse, but Castiel never expected anything different. Healing physical wounds is one thing—recovery is another. “How long am I gonna sound like I swallowed a box of tacks?”

“A few days, maybe,” Castiel assures. Their next kiss, Dean leans up into, his mouth pliant, warm. “You’re free, Dean. You’re done.”

Swallowing, Dean nods. “Hallelujah.”

-+-

Dean sleeps for a solid fifteen hours after the incident, silent and still in his bed for the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon. No one attempts to wake him, not after Castiel explained what happened—and how, hopefully for the final time, Michael was dead and hopefully rotting in Hell, or the Empty, or wherever rogue archangels go to die. In the interim, Castiel watches over him from the empty side of Dean’s bed, sometimes measuring the pace of Dean’s breaths, other times looking out the window at the changing seasons, orange leaves growing deeper in color.

For the first time in almost two decades, Castiel knows peace. Feels it when he cards through Dean’s hair, when he rests his hand over Dean’s clothed shoulder, when he curls up beside him, an arm draped over his stomach while Dean rests. Every time, Dean’s soul glows brighter and reaches out, and Castiel comforts it with his Grace, quelling the constant fear and allowing Dean to sleep, even for a few minutes longer.

It isn’t until dinner that Dean stirs fully, and only then does he leave the sanctuary of his bedroom, Castiel at his back. Skin flushed from the shower, Dean sits in one of the two rocking chairs on the porch and cinches his robe tighter, arms pressed tight against his stomach. Mary and Sam join him after a while, Sam leaning against the bannister, Mary in the other chair. Castiel stands by Dean’s side, a hand on his shoulder. Jack remains in the yard, counting the pumpkins growing in Dean’s garden.

“I’m not moving,” Dean announces, head bowed. “Not away from this town, at least. I’ve… I have a life here, I know people. Shit, I got a job whittling, and I get paid good money for it.”

“We weren’t going to ask you to leave,” Mary says and reaches over to pat his knee. “I know this is what you’ve wanted for a while, and we wouldn’t take this away from you.”

“Cas and I planned on leaving the bunker anyway,” Sam says, to which Castiel raises a brow. If Sam has been planning, he’s never let it show. Then again, they haven’t really had an in-depth conversation in months about anything not concerning Dean. “There’s gotta be libraries or collectors or something that’d take some stuff off our hands. We’re done with the life, Dean. And I’m not saying you have to let us live with you—”

“What if I want you to?” Dean looks up, curling into himself even further. “Fuck it, we can buy a cabin on the mountain, I don’t care. I just want my family back.”

“We never left,” Castiel says and rubs Dean’s shoulder, feeling him soften. “It might take a while, and you might have to come with us at least once, but… We can do this. We’ll make it work, if that’s what you want.”

Blowing out a breath, Dean nods, straightens his back. “Yeah,” he says, voice steady and sure. So much like Castiel always remembered—so much like he missed. “Think I can go another year without getting snowed into my own home.”

“Oh come on, it’s gotta be better than Lebanon,” Sam jests, to everyone’s mutual laughter. “Last year, it snowed so hard that the generator stopped working, and Cas had to fix it with his bare hands.”

Dean snorts, ducking his head. Something curdles in Castiel’s chest, a forgotten sense of longing, both on his own part, and Dean’s. Four years apart, living separate lives with different experiences—they’ll have to catch each other up soon. “You’re gonna have to tell me all about it,” Dean says.

With all of his heart, Castiel intends to.

-+-

Dean sings that night, for the first time with his voice at full strength. Castiel sits with him on the porch, eyes closed, listening to the soft strum of Dean’s fingers across the strings, the song melodic, so much like a hymn. Rather than the dread that previously filled him every time Dean spoke, Castiel listens and hums along, a new sense of purpose blooming in his chest, keeping him grounded, steady.

Around him, the world revolves. Seasons change. A chill seeps further into the air, and Castiel revels in the utter simplicity of it, the kind of life he’s craved, has longed for since the minute Dean left. But now, Dean is here—and Castiel, not for the first time, is grateful for what they have together, for the love they share.

For the kiss Dean gives him when the songs ends, the first one in a long line of kisses to come.

_As you travel day by day, down life's long highway,_  
_ Are you on the road that leads to wrong?_  
_ If you'll just travel in His light and pray both day and night,_  
_ Then you'll be ready to go home._

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as, I may have listened to a little too much Hank Williams, and I may have been on too many trips to Gatlinburg over the years. Anyway, I've been tinkering with this for two weeks, and it's finally done and out of my hair! I hope you like it! Also, my DCBB posts on October 29th, so be on the lookout for that as well! :D
> 
> Songs mentioned are: "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," "I Saw the Light," "Six More Miles (To The Graveyard)" and "Ready to Go Home".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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